


In Sheep's Clothing

by kittydetective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:32:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittydetective/pseuds/kittydetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty is back. What secrets does he bring with him?  Set immediately after His Last Vow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I hope you enjoy this. It's basically just my ideas for what happens next, after HLV. I haven't written creatively in a while and I don't have a beta or anything, so I'm not sure about the quality here. But hopefully my writing improves with time! Please feel free to leave comments and/or constructive criticisms. I will always be happy to hear from you.
> 
> :)

The sun has died long ago. Darkness fills the windows of 221B Baker Street and quiet fills the hearth.

Sherlock sits on his chair, hands steepled beneath his chin. He has not yet changed or showered, has not washed the day from his skin, despite the late hour. The room is in shadows, but a ray of light is caught by the mirror above the fireplace and thrown across the flat. It splashes against the sofa, a pile of books, is taken by some piece of equipment on the desk and chucked back to splinter against John's chair.

A dog barks outside. Sounds of distant laughter bounce through the room. Sherlock knows the laugh – a neighbor from two doors down who studies art at the university. She has just gotten a puppy, not yet housebroken judging by the late night walks. Her boyfriend broke up with her recently, Sherlock sees this in his noted absence and the sudden upkeep of her personal appearance.

Some people fall apart when they are left by their loved ones. They disappear into themselves, hiding in their own skin, only half of what they were. But some people grow – blossom, even. Like weeds, they snake through pavement cracks and climb houses and tall trees, unresting and unbound, growing ever taller toward the sun. There are those for whom solitude is a propellent, a chance to thrive.

Well, thinks Sherlock, good for her. He has never spoken to her, not even a neighborly good morning. Sometimes he catches her watching him. She has seen him on the telly, in the newspapers. She looked ready to faint when he rose from the dead. He supposes anyone would have a fright at that. The girl is lonely, Sherlock knows. He hears her singing sad songs sometimes when he leaves the windows open. Loneliness, hence the dog. But she is not caged by it. Loneliness has untethered her. They have never spoken, but Sherlock is proud of her. Well, he thinks, good for her. Good for her.

A newspaper sits on the coffee table in front of him. Moriarty's face leers from the front page, mocking the darkness and the quiet.

“DID YOU MISS ME,” it reads in bold. Sherlock can hear it as though it's being shouted by the man himself. In his mind's eye, he sees the two of them together on the rooftop. The wind runs between them, playful and full bodied at that altitude. It whips through Sherlock's coat, it strokes his face and runs its fingers through his hair. The wind does not move Moriarty. His coat is too heavy, his hair is gelled into immaculate place.

Sherlock sees the gun. Moriarty opens his jaw, unhinges it just slightly to allow room for the barrel. The jaw muscle stretches to accommodate the action, shifting the mandible, visible through the skin just in front of his right ear. The muzzle brushes his upper lip and he holds the grip loosely, carelessly. His head tilts back and his finger pulls the trigger. Sherlock remembers this. He has replayed the scene a thousand times since that day. There was no hesitation, no question, no flinching moment of doubt. Moriarty did not even close his eyes. He watched Sherlock until the last second, never breaking eye contact. He played the game until the very end.

There are four possibilities, so far, that can account for his survival. None of them are likely. Sherlock grabs the paper and tosses it away in frustration. It lands gracefully on John's chair.

There is a cup of tea on the coffee table that Sherlock had not noticed until now. It will be cold, he knows, but he drinks it anyway. He will have to start making tea for himself again, now that John has returned to Mary's flat. Mrs. Hudson will do it in the mornings, as she does, but in the afternoons he will have to make it for himself. He puts the cup down, sighing into the quietness.

“ _John, there's something I should say.”_

There is a draft in the room. A chill makes its way up Sherlock's spine. Dawn is peeking through the windows, filling the flat with odd shadows. Early rays of sunlight shatter across the room.

“ _I meant to say, always, but never have.”_

The shadows have grown and they seem to tower, but he realizes that the night's darkness is retreating. Light creeps through the furniture, rolls its way over the carpet, snakes up the walls. The room is washed in shades of yellow.

“ _Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now._ ”

Sherlock stands abruptly. The sun is mostly risen and its presence fills the room. He shakes his head, dispelling his thoughts, waving them away impatiently. He makes his way to his bedroom. Introspection does not suit him well.

…

Mary enters first. She drops her bag onto the sofa and sits on the end farthest from the windows. “It's freezing in here,” she says, rubbing her arms. John comes in behind her, closing the door as he steps over the threshold. He moves toward his old chair but, changing his mind, places himself next to his wife. Sherlock watches and says nothing. There is a moment where no one speaks.

“Well,” says John.

A kettle boils. Sherlock disappears into the kitchen, his robe billowing behind him as he turns the corner, and returns a moment later with a tray. “Well,” he echoes, placing it in front of the couple.

John takes a cup. He turns it in his hands a moment and glances at Mary, then back to his friend. “You made tea.”

Sherlock hands Mary a cup as well and she thanks him. He takes his own and sits in his chair. The window is open behind him and a cold breeze picks up, shifting some papers on the coffee table and desk. He holds the cup to his lips, thinking deeply, but does not drink from it. Tendrils of steam rise into his face, catching in the wind and moving languidly in front of his eyes. “In fact, I did.”

Another pause, full of thought. John puts his cup on the table to cool. “You're still in pajamas,” he says. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Well, yes,” he says, “I've only just gotten out of bed.”

Mary laughs and John puts his hand on her knee without thought. He looks at Sherlock with a confused amusement, brows furrowed and lips upturned. “It's nearly six.”

Sherlock looks up from his tea. “Why, so it is. Your proficiency in time telling is unparalleled, John. Thank you.”

John grumbles something incomprehensible and, with a smile, Mary takes his hand in her own. “Moriarty,” she says with intention, calling them back to the issue at hand.

Sherlock puts his tea down. His eyes are drawn to John's chair, where Moriarty's grinning face gloats at him from the newspaper. The pages ripple with another small breeze, contorting his features. His visage is suddenly mocking and sinister. The wind brings him alive, just for a second, giving him artificial expression and movement. It looks as though he will crawl through the pages like a spider, inky and demented, smirking, laughing, venomous. Sherlock's skin crawls, his hands itch. He rolls his shoulders and flexes his fingers distractedly.

“Moriarty.”

There is a silence. John takes his hand from Mary's leg and runs it through his hair anxiously. He rests his elbows on his knees and shakes his head. “Moriarty is dead.”

Sherlock nods. He stands from the chair, strides to the end of the room and back.“He would not be the first to rise from the dead.” His chin sits thoughtfully in his hand.

Mary sips her tea with a frown, unfazed by its temperature. “But you _saw_ him, Sherlock. You watched him die. You said he shot himself in the mouth. How can anyone survive that?”

Sherlock stops pacing and looks to her, catching her eye. “People escape death every day,” he says, his voice low and lazy. She does not look away. Sherlock glances at the door, where the sounds of someone entering the building filter into the flat. Mrs. Hudson has just returned from Tesco. He can hear the rustle of plastic shopping bags, the closing of the front door and the opening of her own, her sensibly low heels clicking on the old wooden floor. “Humans,” he continues, largely to himself, “are no different than spiders. We spin our webs and perch ourselves safely in the middle. We can not foresee all dangers, but we live convinced that they will not reach us. We hide in corners and shadows when we can not fight and fight when we can no longer hide.” A pause. “None of us want death. But survival comes more naturally to some than others.”

There is a knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson peeks her head through and smiles. “Sherlock, your lady friend is back.”

Everyone is confused. Mary turns to John and mouths the words _“lady friend”_ with bewilderment and he shrugs in response. Sherlock frowns. “I'm sorry?”

“She's waiting outside, poor dear. Said she wasn't sure if she should come in. I told her don't be ridiculous, of course she should come in – she'll catch her death out there in the cold! But she wouldn't hear of it without asking. So strange, she practically lived here after the wedding. I don't know what you've done to make her so upset.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Janine? What could she possibly want?”

“Well I don't know, but I'm sending her up. She'll catch her death out there, poor dear!”

The door closes before he can respond. Voices are heard on the landing. Footsteps make their way up the stairs and the door opens, Janine standing in the entrance. Her cheeks are flushed from cold and she grips her purse tightly in both hands. Her eyes go from John and Mary to Sherlock, standing across the room. She takes a deep breath.

“I think someone is trying to kill me.”

 

…

 

Their steps are quick and purposeful as they walk across a red carpet. Their outfits are professional, hair neatly in place, backs straight. Their appearance errs strongly toward posh and snobbish. The man carries a file with a government seal emblazoned on the front. They turn a corner. The woman looks to her companion as they walk.

“What did he mean?” she says. The man is confused. His handsome face turns to her. Another corner. They walk through a pair of heavy doors and continue down a hallway. “Mr. Holmes. The other day he mentioned another brother, if I heard correctly. 'You know what happened to the other one,' he said. What did he mean? What happened?”

The man glances around. “Perhaps we shouldn't gossip about this.”

She sighs and opens the file in her hands. A man's face peers at her from the pages within. Jim Moriarty. She closes it quickly. “Do you think he can really be alive?”

“It appears so. His face was everywhere. We know he's pulled similar tricks in the past – threatening that jury, fabricating an entire identity. He's powerful. I wouldn't be surprised if he managed to survive shooting himself in the face.”  


The woman shook her head. “Is he even human?” The man laughs and there is a minute of amiable silence as they begin to reach their destination. “Really, though. What happened to the other brother? I should know about these things, I'm his assistant.”

They stop just outside the door. He sighs and turns to her. “I don't know the whole story. He died, that's all I heard.”

She turns the doorknob and steps into the room, holding out the file. “Here is the information you asked for, Mr. Holmes.”

 

…

 

“ _I think someone is trying to kill me.”_

Her bag drops to the floor and she moves quickly across the room. She stands in front of Sherlock for a minute, without words. Her breaths are quick, her pupils dilated. Sherlock reaches out, holds her wrist gently to check her pulse.

Elevated.

“What hap--” He is caught of guard as her arms are thrown around him. Mary or John, he is unsure which, makes a small noise of surprise in the background. His hand goes to her back, where he puts a bit of gentle pressure. “What happened?”

She steps back. Her arms fall to her sides. Sherlock motions to the empty chair, and she lowers herself gingerly onto it. “You brought the chair back,” she says, her voice quiet, rubbing the armrests with what seems like deference before folding her hands into her lap.

“I did.” Sherlock returns to his own chair, sits quietly, waiting for her to continue.

“I always liked this chair,” she says absently. “So comfortable. But I got the feeling it was off limits. Why did you move it?”

Sherlock clears his throat. He sees the tilt of John's head in his peripheral, but does not acknowledge him. “What happened?” he asks again.

Janine closes her eyes. Her shoulders tense and rise almost to her ears, then drop as she exhales heavily. She takes several deep, steadying breaths. “I was walking home.” She says slowly, recounting the experience as she goes. Sherlock remembers listening to her speak during the short interlude of their time together. She talked often. Although the subject matter was generally uninteresting, her accent had always pleased him. He enjoyed the ups and downs of it, the way it seemed to tickle her words as she spoke them. “I was being followed. Someone was behind me, I could see them. I didn't go home – I didn't want them to see where I live. I started walking faster and they sped up too. And then we were both running and I was stopped at a crosswalk. The light was red; I had nowhere to go. They pushed me and I fell into the street. I don't know how I didn't – I mean, the car was _so close_. It swerved at the last second.” She closes her eyes again. When she opens them they are fearful. “I almost died, Sherl.”

John makes a sound. “Sherl,” he mutters. Janine doesn't hear. She is looking out the window, deeply in thought. Sherlock ignores him.

“Did you see their face? What they look like?”

She shakes her head, frustrated. “They had a hat and scarf and a big hood. I couldn't see anything.”

“Nothing at all? Male or female? Height? Color?”

She shrugs. “Caucasian, I think. Medium height. Statistically, probably male. I couldn't tell though. Baggy clothes.” Sherlock nods. He sips his tea, leans back in his chair. His hands fold onto his stomach. Janine lets out a quiet laugh and he looks up. “You're still in your pajamas,” she says.

He rolls his eyes, wraps his robe more tightly around him. He waves his hand dismissively. “It was a lazy day.”

She smiles, says something about lazy Sundays, and he has an image suddenly of her in his bed, in his shirt. The sunlight leaves its fingerprints on her cheek and covers her legs in Rorschach images. Her eyes look at him from the pillow, she licks her dry lips. Her voice is heavy; sleep has not given her up just yet. _“Good morning,”_ she says.

It was not an unpleasant time.

John is glancing between them in confusion, and possibly appallment. Mary has an eyebrow raised, but says nothing.

“We'll call Gabe-"

"Greg."

“-although I am loathe to resort to the efforts of the police, which are mediocre at best. In this case they will be able to help you more effectively than I can. I imagine they will have someone stay with you at your home to ensure—”

“No,” she says quickly. She runs her fingers through her hair. “Not the police.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow, leans forward. “I... don't trust them. Never have.”

He presses his lips together. “I see.”

Janine looks around nervously. “Can I... stay here?” John laughs abruptly. Mary swats him, gives him a look that says _what is wrong with you?_ “I know it's a lot to ask, especially after... everything...” Sherlock makes a contemplative face and nods. “But I don't know what else to do. And honestly, Sherl? I'll feel safest with you.”

Sherlock rises slowly to his feet. He walks into the kitchen and comes back with another teacup. He fills it and sets it in front of Janine. “You can stay,” he says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey again! So this chapter was going to be longer, but I figured I'd just put it out where it is now so you guys don't have to wait as long. :)

It is quiet in the flat. Janine gathers the tea tray from where it rests by the sofa. Sherlock sits at the desk, researching on his laptop. The sun withdraws behind red clouds, but they can not see it. The open windows of the living room face east. A cold wind sifts through, raising the hairs on Sherlock's arms.

The dying sun will be taking its liberties with his room at this hour. His bed will be painted over in shades of rouge and the sunset will leave traces of its touch against the walls and shelves. The light of the living room, by contrast, is sombre – dim but for the glow of a single lamp. Mary and John have left hours ago.

By now they will be in Mary's home, probably just finishing supper. Possibly they have finished it already. They will soon be preparing for sleep. Mary will comb her hair, apply face cream. John will shower and put his night clothes on, will lay with her in bed and touch her stomach with reverence. They will smile to each other over the miracle of life that is growing in her belly, and they will fall asleep.

Janine puts the dishes in the sink. “I'll wash these later,” she says. Sherlock does not look up. His focus is intent upon his screen.

“If you want.”

She walks into the room, makes her way toward the desk where he sits. He does not watch her, but he doesn't have to. She will take several more steps and stand behind him, will rest a hand on his shoulder. Not a heavy or imposing hand, just a brief moment of contact. She will ask him what he is doing, will touch him in some other small, insignificant way. Nothing presumptuous, nothing meaningful. She is simply affectionate by nature. They have shared this dance before. He closes a tab as she approaches.

“I do,” she says, coming up to his chair. “I will. Later. It's the least I can do, but I'm too tired for it right now.” She rests a hand on his shoulder and peers over him. “What are you up to?”

She is curious, always. She had mentioned earlier, in a moment of small talk, her hopes of switching professions. Said she'd like to be a journalist. Sherlock supposes the publicity she received after their time together has given her a taste for media. He does not mean this unkindly. She knows what real reporting is.

“Revisiting my death,” he says. From her position behind him, she straightens the collar of his robe and tucks a stray curl behind his ear. He pauses momentarily, but does not look up. “When they thought I had died, did you read any of the reports?”

She shakes her head. He can see her reflection in the glare on his screen. It is pensive. “I read about it a little. I knew it was a big thing, but I wasn't bothered much by it. No offense.”

He clicks a link, and suddenly the browser is flooded with images from the crime scene.

He goes through them one by one. Here is a view from the roof – sixty two feet and seven inches to the ground. Here is where the body landed, complete with the white outline of a dead man. The position it depicts is gruesome and unnatural. Here is the blood; it has spilled into the cracks on the pavement, running in rivulets like lines on a map, leading you further and further from the truth. There are no pictures of his face or his body.

Janine squeezes his shoulder. Her breaths are a bit unsteady. “Surreal,” she says, hushed. Sherlock nods, a slight movement. “I won't ask how you did it, not right now. But I'm glad, you know,” a pause, “That you're alive.”

Sherlock does not respond immediately. He clicks through more pictures. “Have you noticed the one thing that is very interesting?”

Her laughter reverberates on his spine. “You mean besides the dead man walking?” She looks at the screen thoughtfully. “I don't know. The view from the rooftop seems quite nice. Not a bad place for suicide, all things considered.”

The corners of his lips twitch. It is a bit of macabre humor. He can appreciate it. “No, Janine. Look. What do you not see, in all these articles, all these interviews and pictures pertaining to my death? What is missing?”

She reaches over him, taking control of the computer, and he lets his hand fall to his lap. Her hair brushes against his jaw as she leans on him gently, warm against his back. Her heart beats in a steady rhythm and he is cradled by the smell of her perfume. She has had her nails done recently; the polish is new and shiny. He hears the _tap, tap, tap_ of them against the keyboard and mouse pad.

“Jim,” she mumbles. She clicks through more articles, more pictures. “Jim Moriarty. There's no mention of him anywhere. Where is he?”

Sherlock looks up at her with a pleased expression. “Yes, where indeed?”

…

John's phone vibrates on the counter. He reaches across the bed and grabs it, hits the ignore button, and rolls back over. He does not open his eyes.

He is nearly sleeping once more when it begins to vibrate again. He forces his eyelids open, blinking several times. The windows are dark. The moon is a living thing in the sky. It casts a spotlight on Mary's sleeping face. John checks his phone and sees Sherlock's name flash across the screen. He sighs, pulls himself out of bed, careful not to wake his wife. He steps out of the bedroom and answers the call.

“Sherlock, it is half past four. What could you possibly want?” His words are slurred with sleep. He puts a hand to his aching head.

“Hello John,” says a voice that does not come from the phone. John whips around, his hand going instinctively to the back of his trousers, reaching for a gun that isn't there. Sherlock sits on the sofa, legs crossed, looking smug and amused. He has John's laptop open next to him. “I'm glad you could join me.”

John looks to Sherlock and back to his room. “How—” He turns back and sees that the living room window is slightly ajar. “ _Jesus_ , Sherlock. Did you break into my flat?” Sherlock says nothing. He is looking at the computer now. John waves at him. “Sherlock? Hello? Hi, yeah. You're in my fucking flat. It is the middle of the night. What do you want?”

Sherlock sighs. “John, I am disappointed. I had thought that domesticity would soften you.” John's jaw twitches. His mouth is tight. He will begin to shout soon. “I am investigating,” Sherlock says simply.

“Investigating _what_? My wifi connection?”

Sherlock closes the laptop. He pulls a knife out of his pocket, small and rather innocuous. He runs a finger down its edge absently. “Don't be ridiculous. I only made a quick stop here to see if you wanted to join me.” His lips turn up just a bit, his eyes glance at the ceiling. “I thought you might be _bored_.”

John eyes the blade. He turns to his bedroom again, listens for a moment. There are no sounds from within. “I am not _bored,_ ” he whispers angrily. “I am tired.”

Sherlock stands, begins to walk to the window. He drops the knife into a pocket. “Suit yourself,” he says as he raises the sash and begins to climb through. John steps forward abruptly and Sherlock pauses. They don't speak for a minute. The moonlight casts a glow on Sherlock's face, creating shadows along his features that give him a formidable look.

“Will I need my gun?”

Sherlock tilts his head, considers the question. “There is always the possibility.”

“Jesus.” John shakes his head. He can't believe himself. “Fine, ok. Hold on.” He writes a note and leaves it on the kitchen counter. _“Gone for a walk. Back soon.”_ He treads quietly to the bedroom door, is about to open it when Sherlock coughs. He is holding John's gun out, dangling it from his fingers, smiling expectantly. John laughs. “For Christ's sake,” he says, following Sherlock through the window.

…

“Are we going to crawl through the window here as well?”

They are walking quickly. Sherlock leads, heading purposefully toward a red brick building. It is an apartment. Not the nicest set of flats, not like the ones they usually have to investigate - those of wealthy, high class criminals - but it is nothing shady or disreputable. It looks comfortable. It is quiet and unassuming. Quite normal, in fact. Sherlock walks to the door, reaches into his pocket and pulls something out.

“Why would need to when we have a key?”

John shakes his head. He watches Sherlock unlock it and follows him through. They walk up several flights of stairs and come to stand outside another door. Once again, Sherlock is ready with a key. They cross the threshold. It is dark in the flat. No one is home.

“Who lives here?” John fingers a coat hanging by the door. A woman's coat. There is an extra set of keys in a dish on the kitchen counter. A glass sits there as well, half empty. Sherlock doesn't respond. He has disappeared into a bedroom. John hears him moving around, looking through drawers and belongings. He makes his way to the room as well and watches for a bit.

Sherlock sifts through some miscellaneous things on a desk. He is hunched over, his movements furtive and quick. He is squinting at papers, attempting to read them in the dark. John lifts some things on a dresser absentmindedly, unsure of what it is he should be looking for.

Sherlock sees nothing of interest. A laptop, closed, next to a folder. He opens it. There is a CV within, a cover letter, some hand written notes about potential job interviews. A candle on the bedside table. A bra thrown haphazardly on the bed. Lipstick on the dresser. Nothing. He walks over to where John is standing and opens the top drawer. John steps back.

“What, is this a panty raid now?” Sherlock sifts through various articles of clothing. “Sherlock, who's flat is this? What are we looking for?”

Sherlock doesn't look up. “Something... suspicious,” he mumbles, catching something in his hand. Paper. Laminated. A photo? He feels rough edges. It's been torn. He pulls it out and they look at it together.

“Is that Janine? Jesus. What is going on? _Why_ did we just break into your ex's flat?”

Sherlock gives him a look. “Faux ex,” he says simply. John lets out a short laugh, incredulous. He is rubbing his temples, shaking his head.

“You broke her heart.”

Sherlock moves to the next drawer. More rummaging. “Hardly.”

He feels something brush against his fingers. Folded paper. Wrinkled and soft. It's old, at least several years. He pulls it out, but before he can have a proper look there is a noise from the living room. Someone has opened a window. John and Sherlock stand perfectly still.

Footsteps. Making their way across the flat, coming ever closer. John looks around in panic. There is nowhere to hide. The light turns on and they are momentarily blinded.

Sherlock's vision clears first, but the intruder is already escaping. “John, quickly!” he shouts. They scramble out of the bedroom. The man is in espionage black, camouflaged by the shadows. They can see nothing of his features. He opens the door and dashes out. Down the stairs, all of them run. The trespasser jumps down the last three steps, flings open front door, and runs into the street. He climbs into a waiting car and is speeding away by the time John and Sherlock make it to the curb. John grabs his gun and points it at the retreating vehicle, but there is no clear shot to take.

They stand there, watching as it rushes down the street. Sherlock runs an agitated hand through his hair and paces around himself in distress. John takes a moment to catch his breath. “What the _hell_ was that,” he pants.

Sherlock shakes his head. He is still pacing, rubbing his mouth distractedly. He is about to speak, but John's phone begins to ring. Mary's name glares from the screen. He curses under his breath.

“Go ahead,” Sherlock says. He motions in the general direction of the main road. “You're wife is missing you.”

“Sherlock—”

“Your _pregnant_ wife.” His words are short and assertive, the way they become when he is frustrated with a puzzle. Solitude will be the greatest help now.

John sighs. “Yes, alright. I'm going.” He begins toward the busy street, throwing his hand up for a cab. “But I'm going to come over tomorrow and you are going to tell me exactly what the hell is going on.”

…

 

As he enters the flat, Sherlock stops for a moment by the sofa. He plucks the keys from his pocket and drops them into Janine's coat before shedding his own and carrying them both to his room. He hangs them up on the back of the door.

The room is nearly pitch black and silent but for Janine's steady, sleepy breathing. She is in his bed, as he knew she would be, tucked beneath the sheets. The quilt has been kicked almost to the floor. Her hands cradle her cheek from beneath the pillow and her hair is pulled back carelessly into a messy bun. It will be disheveled and in her face by morning.

Sherlock takes the contents of his pockets and puts them into a drawer, out of sight. He will revisit them tomorrow, when he is less fatigued. Gravity works diligently against his eyelids; the weight of his lashes pull at them like anchors. His gaze drifts to the woman in his bed. There is a pain in his temple that is not entirely to do with sleeplessness.

Sherlock lowers himself to the edge of the mattress. She lays on her back, her face turned to the wall opposite him, her stomach rising and falling beneath the covers. Sherlock slips his shoes off and kicks them under the bed frame. He sits mutely for a bit. Janine shifts beside him. She rolls over, yawns. Her sleepy eyes reflect what little light has managed to sneak its way into the room. Her face is pale without make up, naked. Something casts a violet shadow across her lips. She pats the space next to her and Sherlock leans back until he is laying down, compliant. He watches the ceiling.

“And where have you been,” she whispers. Even that low volume is almost too loud in the stillness that surrounds them.

“I went for a walk,” he says, voice equally hushed. “Needed to think.”

She gives a small, breathy laugh. He turns to her, catching her smile briefly before she rolls over to face the other wall once again.

“Oh, I doubt that.”

Sherlock does not answer. He closes his eyes and is asleep before he can remember to get beneath the covers.

…

John sits on his chair, alone. He is sipping coffee from the shop downstairs, picking at the cardboard sleeve as he waits. He has removed the disposable lid and it sits on the table at his side. The sun spills into his open cup; it weaves its way through the tendrils of steam and paints a splash of yellow on the ceiling. Morning light fills his eyes, warming his tired face. He hears the shower turn off.

After a minute or two, a doorknob turns. John swivels to look into the hallway behind him, watches as Sherlock steps out of the bathroom. His hair is wet, it drips onto his cheeks and shoulders. There is a red towel around his waist. He glances briefly at John before entering his bedroom, closing the door behind him. There are voices. Janine steps out. She is wearing Sherlock's shirt. John looks away and takes a sip from his cup.

“Are you guys...” His voice trails off, unsure of how to complete the question. She smiles devilishly into the awkward silence.

“I don't know what you mean,” she laughs. She is reaching up to the shelf for coffee. “Where's Mary?”

“She's having a bit of a lie in this morning. Wasn't feeling well. You know.”

Janine nods and Sherlock enters the kitchen a moment later, hair still damp, but dressed. He walks into the living room and sits across from John.

“Janine, I do apologize,” he drawls. “But I believe I have run out of coffee. However they do make a nice brew downstairs, and they won't charge you for refills if you mention our dear landlady.”

She peers into the tin. “Oh, you're right. Well, I might just run down quickly. I'll get some milk while I'm there. You're out of that as well.”

John raises an eyebrow. They are quiet as she goes back into the bedroom and reappears in a pair of trousers and her coat. She waves to them as she walks past. “Back in a mo.”

The door closes. John clears his throat, turning to Sherlock. “So when can I expect the happy announcement?”

Sherlock frowns. “I don't know what you mean.” He pulls something out of his pocket and holds it out for John. It is the photo from last night. “We have to speak quickly. She takes her time with coffee, and she will be unable to resist that second cup, but nevertheless we don't have long.” John takes the photo.

“What is this?” Sherlock watches as he inspects it. His forehead is wrinkled in consternation, his shoulders hunched as he rests his elbows on his knees. Sunlight has illuminated the hair by his temples and the crown of his head. He brushes a finger along the torn edge, flips the photo over to check the back of it. “I don't understand. It's a picture of Janine. What is so special about it?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I don't know yet, not exactly,” he says. “But it's been torn, see? Right down the middle. There was someone else in that picture, someone she doesn't want to be reminded of. Someone she can't forget.”

John hands the picture back to Sherlock. He seems unsure. “How do you know that?”

A vibration comes from the side table. It is John's phone. He reads the text quickly but does not respond. Sherlock sees Mary's name on the screen as John presses the mute button and places the device in his pocket.

“Look here,” Sherlock says to him. He points to the photograph and John leans forward, paying attention. “She is smiling, see? And from her expression I'd say it is genuine. See the lift of her cheeks? And these wrinkles here? This is commonly called the Duchenne smile. The truth is in the eyes.” John nods; he has heard of this concept in the past. “From the position of her shoulder we can see that she had her arm around someone next to her, but they are now excluded from the scene.” He motions to the the side that has been ripped off. “The condition of the photo suggests that it is some years old. The corners are worn, there are fingerprints around the edges. She holds this photo often. There are a few tears – naturally, if the photo is well loved – but only this one is intentional.” He runs his finger down the ragged edge. “There was someone here, someone with whom she was close, but whose memory is perhaps in someway painful or upsetting. Possibly a dead relative or an old lover. But if it is so upsetting, why can she not bring herself to throw away the picture in whole? What is it specifically that she is unable to let go of?”

For a moment there is silence as they each attempt to answer the questions. John shakes his head. “I don't know.”

Sherlock leans back into his chair. The sun is warm on the nape of his neck. Thinking deeply, he holds the photo to his lips. “Neither do I,” he says. Sitting up again, he extracts more paper from his pocket.

“What's that?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Nothing important. A bill from her stay in the hospital. I took it without realizing.”

A breeze lifts the page as he puts it back into his pocket. It makes a quiet, rustling sound. “When was she in the hospital?” John is frowning. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“The same night I was admitted. She was struck in the head, remember?” John does not speak. He sets his nearly empty cup on the table and swipes a hand across his mouth. “But this,” Sherlock continues. “Look at this.”

John takes the next paper, begins to unfold it. “What is it?”

Sherlock grins. “This, John, is a birth certificate. And it is not Janine's.”

The door opens. John stuffs the paper quickly into his pocket as Janine enters the room. She has a coffee cup in one hand and a bag containing milk in the other. She sets her cup on the kitchen table.

John swallows the final sip of his coffee and walks into the kitchen as she is opening the fridge. Empty cup in hand, he steps on the lever to open the trash and sees a small mountain of coffee grounds waiting at the top. He glances quickly to Sherlock, but his eyes are closed in thought. Janine steps toward him, intending to dispose of her own. John takes it from her quickly, smiles, and throws it away before she can look into the bin. He covers the grounds further with the empty bag.

“Thank you,” she says, possibly a bit startled. John nods weakly. His mobile vibrates against his leg. He checks it.

_Come home. I'm making waffles._

Janine strolls to the bathroom. The door closes and the shower turns on. John walks to his chair, picks up his coat.

“I have to go.” Sherlock's eyes snap open. His thoughts had taken him elsewhere.

“Yes,” he says after a moment. “Yes, quite. Hearth and home await you.”

John is slipping his arms through the coat sleeves. He pulls the zipper to his chest, green cardigan peeking from the top. He tugs on it, straightening his lapels. “One question,” he says softly, glancing in the direction of the bathroom. “How did you know someone would be at the flat?”

Sherlock looks confused. “I'm sorry?”

John treads toward the door and pauses with his hand on the knob. “Last night. You knew someone would be there. You brought a knife.”

He opens the door, turns to his friend before stepping through. Sherlock folds his hands against his stomach. “I had no idea that we would have company,” he says. “The knife was simply incentive.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this one is quite short, I know. It's the second part of the last one. I hope you enjoy it, because it was actually a lot of fun to write. :)

 Sherlock reclines on the sofa, his long legs draped over the arm rest. He is motionless but for the beating of his heart and a steady rise and fall as he breathes. His eyes are closed, his lashes rest against pale cheeks. He is not sleeping.

Janine is sleeping. She has retired a long while ago; Sherlock doesn't know for certain how long it's been. She left his door open, just a little. An invitation.

“Don't stay up too late,” she said as her bare feet padded across the floor. The words followed her into his bed.

His hands are folded, settled against his pelvis. He is not entirely present in the flat. A wind chime rings from some neighbor's porch. The sound is carried upon a cold breeze, taken somewhere far away, dissipating into the darkness. It does not register to Sherlock.

_Diedre Nicole Durnin._

He turns the name around in his mind. It rolls over itself, tossed by waves of unknown influences, yielding little.

He knows the given name. Mythological roots, very well known. Diedre - the most beautiful woman in Ireland. A romantic story, with lovers and deaths. John should put it in his blog. But unhelpful. He sifts through what other context surrounds it.

The Mystic Knights. No. The Beach Boys. Sherlock shakes his head, moves on. Durnin. Gaelic.“Little fist.”

His eyebrows crease, frustrated. The information leads nowhere. He brushes the name to the side.

In its place is the photo from Janine's flat. The old picture, from several years ago. She is younger here. Bright eyes, big smile. The cobalt sky offsets her pale skin nicely. Imaginary winds pull at her hair and the vibrant flowers in the background. She is so happy.

Her body leans ever so slightly to the right. The magnetic pull of affection, drawing her subconsciously nearer to the person next to her. A man? A lover? Perhaps a sister or brother. Sherlock does not have the greatest understanding of sibling love, but he knows it exists. He has, at times, been an unwilling victim of it himself.

He sighs, rubs his hands down his face. He can deduce almost nothing from the information at hand. Almost nothing.

His neighbor is outside with her dog. It barks at something in the street and she shushes it like a child. It must be quite late. He opens his eyes to the ceiling. Shadows creep up the walls, engulfing his periphery. There is a noise from beside him. His phone blinks on the floor.

He leans down and picks it up. A text from an unknown sender. He opens it. There are no words, only an image. This particular image, he remembers. The empty sky, the view from a rooftop. He sees the ledge at the bottom of the picture. Sixty two feet and seven inches above ground.

He stands abruptly. Grabbing his coat and scarf, he walks swiftly out the door.

…

Mary stands in the doorway, smiling softly.

“She's kicking quite a lot tonight,” she says, hand resting against her stomach. John watches her from the bed, smiles at her in return. She comes over and lays herself next to him. “You've been quiet all day.”

He looks away for a moment before turning to her. “Have I?” he says. “I didn't mean to be.”

She puts a hand on his arm, rubs small circles into his skin. It is comforting. “Did something happen?”

The telly is on, the volume low. It casts a strange light on her face. Her features shift with the movements on screen; shades of technicolor are absorbed and reflected in her irises. John shakes his head and turns it off. “No, nothing. I've just been thinking.”

She nods understandingly. It is a stressful time for everyone, John supposes. She has likely been doing her fair share of worrying as well.

But there is something inside of John. He can feel its presence in his chest, visceral, alive, refusing to be ignored. It is at once an anchor and an emptiness. A question and an answer. It pulls him into the mattress and he sinks into it. Mary has taken her hand away, she is curling in on herself, already falling into the clutches of sleep. He grabs her arm, a sudden and unbidden movement. She looks at him.

“John?”

His lips open. Words are there, but he can't find them. They are quiet for a moment.

“How did you meet Janine?”

Her eyebrows rise, surprised. She is confused. “Janine? She was a secretary at the hospital I worked in before yours.”

John nods. Something is pulling at him, dragging him in a direction he does not want to go. “And you've always been good friends?”

“Yes,” she says. “Practically since we met. We've always been close.”

Something stretches out before his subconscious. A landscape, empty and vast and dark. Filled with a past, filled with information he doesn't want or need. But his feet are wet already, he can hardly just turn around and leave. The sinking sensation is spreading rapidly through his veins.

“You hit her.”

He doesn't realize he's said it. There is absolute stillness.

“What?”

John turns to face her. He can only see parts of her face through the veneer of darkness. He doesn't know what he looks like right now, covered in shadows, and he's not sure that he wants to.

“You hit her. You struck her bloody. She was in the hospital.”

Mary is breathing very quickly now. “I can't... It was–”

“Habit?” 

John realizes belatedly that he is angry. He can feel his heart beating wildly. He looks to the ceiling, but there is only darkness. There is so much he does not want to know.

“John, no.” She grasps for words. The room feels very small. “I'm not that person anymore. You said—”

John hits the mattress. “I know what I said.” He realizes he is shouting and clamps his lips together. Something is twisting around inside of him, bitter and resentful, filling his limbs. It tingles at his fingertips. It convulses around his heart. He takes several deep breaths. “I'm sorry,” he says suddenly. “You're right. You're not that person.”

Neither of them speak. The world is motionless, its shirttails caught on a single moment in time.

Everything is still but for an east wind as it rolls swiftly through the room.

…

Sherlock pushes through the heavy door and steps onto the roof of St. Barts. The wind whips around him, grabs at his coat and hair, threatening to carry him away.

He is unsure of what emotion it is that fills him as he stands here, at the scene of his death. It is something heavy and grounded. It's roots are buried deep within him, branching out into every vein and nerve. He pushes it away.

There is no one else on the roof. He is utterly alone. He walks to the ledge and looks down. There is the spot where his body landed. There is where John stood, watching, unaware that he himself was so close to death. A sudden gust comes up from behind and the force of it sways him. His heart lurches as he nearly tips over the edge. He steps back quickly.

Turning around, he sees the spot where the two of them stood together. He envisions the gun, the way Moriarty smiled around it, his teething biting against the hard metal. On the ground there are dark spots, residual blood perhaps. He can't quite tell in the dark.

He turns around himself, looking for some clue, some reason that he was lead here. He does not fully expect to see Moriarty himself. He doesn't know if his absence tonight is good or bad. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out.

_Look up._

Sherlock turns his head to the sky. It is dizzying in its immensity. So much of it is visible up here, and Sherlock is floored by the fact of his own smallness.

Stars blink at him merrily. His throat is exposed as he looks up and is pricked by a cold breeze as it filters past. The position unbalances him and he stumbles slightly. But perhaps it is more than the position, he concedes to himself.

Just when he begins to wonder if he should leave, if his presence here, alone and unarmed, is perhaps not wise, he hears something. There is a loud and terrible bang. He whips around and sees the sky lit up by a hundred flashing lights.

Fireworks. He imagines he can hear a child's laughter, a shout of joy at the spectacle. But he knows, logically, that is unreasonable at this height. It is only the wind. His phone alerts him to another message.

_I've missed our great game._

Fireworks break continuously into the night, one after another. Sherlock's heartbeat is erratic. Every terrible boom shakes him to the core.

Soon they begin to slow. He continues to look up, searching in every flashing pigment for a sign. The very last one flies into the air and collapses in a shower of yellow. As it settles, he makes out a single picture in the sky. An enormous, twinkling smiley face. 

His phone vibrates again.

_Are you ready for round two?_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this chapter was actually really hard for me. It's very dialogue-heavy, and while I don't think I'm bad at writing conversations themselves, I have a difficult time fitting them into the context of a narrative. So if anyone has any criticisms or tips, please feel free to give them!
> 
> It was nice to kind of flesh out Janine's character a bit. I really, really liked her in season three and always wished they had given her a little more attention. Coming up with a back story for her, making her more real and vulnerable, and finding dumb, convoluted ways to tie her to the show's overarching plot was fun for me.
> 
> I SHOULD go back and edit this whole chapter a bit more, because I haven't really edited it at all, but oh well I'm posting it now and you can't stop me

 The night looms. Sherlock walks, ever aware of its presence above and around him. He feels irrationally that the stars might drop at any moment, one by one, crushing buildings and cities, burning the hearts out of people everywhere. The world will end in white light.

He should take a cab, but he is in no mood for human contact. He treads idly down the street and notices, as he passes beneath a streetlamp, a girl standing with her back to the wind. She is leaning over herself. A flame pops up in the darkness, illuminating her lips as they pucker around a fag. She inhales deeply and opens her mouth, letting the smoke spill out slowly. Her eyes are closed, possibly in pleasure. They open and catch hold of Sherlock as he watches her.

“Rough night?”

He glances down at himself. Is his anxiety so obvious? He can feel it filling him up. It started at his feet and rose higher and higher, the way an ocean would fill a sinking boat. He imagines she can see it spilling out of his eyes, dripping down his cheeks, pooling in the crevices of his lips. She holds out a smoke.

For the briefest of moments, he considers refusing. But then he hears the gravel crunching beneath his feet and realizes that he is already stepping toward her in acquiescence. She holds the lighter for him as he inhales. He watches the energy transfer closely. He finds it fascinating, the way the fire latches onto the end of the paper, engulfing it in orange. It burns brightly as he breathes in, the little strands of tobacco turning black and shriveling up on themselves. The white paper curls back and becomes ash. He tips his head back and exhales.

The nicotine gives him a buoyant feeling. The panic has subsided a little, the waterline dropping below his chest cavity. His heart feels lighter and beats more freely now. He thanks the girl and continues walking.

The sun is rising by the time he rounds the corner of Baker Street. It's light covers the sides of buildings and fills the pavement. There is melting snow on the sides of the road, murky and gray. It makes a sloshing noise as he steps through it.

The quick shop is dimly lit from the back. It is not yet open for business, but the smell of brewing coffee wafts from the windows.

As he steps up to the door of 221B, he notices a slip of parchment tucked beneath the knocker. He takes it out, unfolds it. The page is very thin. It turns translucent under the sun's gaze and he can see the outline of handwriting on the shadow it leaves on his palm.

_Tell my girl I said hello. -M_

Sherlock folds the page and pockets it. He looks around him, but he is alone on the street. He opens the door and steps inside. The steps creak beneath his shoes as he makes his way, wearily, to the flat. He opens the door and removes his scarf, tossing it onto the sofa. As he begins to unbutton his coat, he spies Janine sitting at the kitchen table. She is looking down, head in her hands.

“You went through my flat,” she murmurs. The microwave clock blinks out the early hour. She turns to look at him, holding out the borrowed photo and papers. Sherlock sits across from her.

“And apparently, you went through my desk.”

Janine laughs, a bitter sound. She runs her hand along the photo and lets it fall to the table. “I was looking for a pen.”

The kitchen lights bear down on them, warming the crowns of their heads. A stream of sun unfolds from the living room window and climbs up Sherlock's arm into his eye. He blinks and turns his face out of the light. His hand reaches into his pocket and retrieves the paper he found on the door. Unfolding it, he lays it on the table.

“You lied to me,” he intones, watching her, leaning back into his chair. “You lied and lied.”

Her face is anguished, eyebrows pulled up in distress, forehead creased, lower lip caught between her teeth. Sherlock can see salty tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She swipes the papers off the table angrily and stuffs them into her pocket.

“You only had to ask,” she says, standing. “I would have told you the truth.”

…

The front door opens downstairs. Sherlock can hear Mary's voice on the landing.

He plays the last few meters of a song as she and John walk up the steps. The notes chase each other around the room, echoing against the walls and furniture, before dispersing. Mary opens the door to the flat and waddles over the threshold with John behind her.

She smiles to Sherlock, two hands on her round belly. Her make up has been redone twice this morning. Her nails, which had been nicely polished yesterday, are bitten to the quick. Her gaze rests predominately on the floor, looking up only once in a while and never quite meeting John's.

Sherlock rests his violin against the wall and waits. Mary speaks first.

“Where's Janine?” Her voice catches, just a little, on the name. Sherlock waves his hand vaguely toward the bedroom.

“Sulking.”

Mary's smile is distracted. She lowers herself onto the sofa and John remains by the door.

“Had a bit of a domestic then?” she says, easing herself onto the cushions. After a moment, John places himself beside her. Sherlock watches them and says nothing.

The sun is up in full now, broadcasting itself over the pair of them, causing the Victorian paisley to crawl and leap from the wallpaper. The lighting is stark and frank; it washes out the faces of John and Mary. They resemble actors sitting on a stage, detached, or castaways waiting on a wrecked boat. They seem very alone, sitting there next to each other.

Mary places her hand on John's knee. It is a timid gesture, full of questions and apologies. John covers it with his own hand and squeezes it very lightly.

“Something like that,” Sherlock says finally, breaking the silence.

The door opens again and Mrs. Hudson pokes her head through the crack. She nudges it open with her hip and steps through, grinning, carrying a tray of tea in her hands.

“Oh, I thought I heard voices up here,” she says, placing the tray down on the table. She pours a cup and hands it to Sherlock. Steam gathers and pools inside of it, a few tendrils escaping over the delicate porcelain rim, tangling with the light of the sun. He takes it, thanking her. “Mary, why, look at you. Just ready to burst, it could be any second now! John, you must be so happy.”

Mary rests her other hand against the swell of her stomach and John pats her knee. He is slow to respond.

“Very,” he says, looking up at Mrs. Hudson. “Yes, very.”

Mary takes a cup from the tray, thanking Mrs. Hudson as she does so, and fills it with hot tea. She drops into it a bit of cream and the color bleeds into a warm brown as she stirs. Leaning back, wordlessly, she holds it out to John. He takes it with just a hint of surprise and murmurs his thanks. Mary pours her own cup and settles herself against the sofa.

They sit quietly for a time, sipping their tea. Mrs. Hudson bustles around the kitchen, compulsively tidying up as she goes. She reenters the living room.

“John, dear, would you help me downstairs for a moment? My sink has been acting so funny lately, I just don't know what to do about it. And Sherlock is no help with these things.” She glances at Sherlock apologetically. “Sorry, dear.”

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “No need, Mrs. Hudson, you are quite right. There are matters far more deserving of my focus and energy than your dodgy sink.”

John places his cup onto the tray and stands. “Yes, of course,” he says, making his way to the door, “I'm no expert myself, but I'll have a look.”

He follows Mrs. Hudson into the hallway and closes the door behind him. Mary and Sherlock sit in contemplative silence over their drinks.

“Sherlock,” she says suddenly, eyes pointed toward the floor. Her words are addressed to the room at large. Sherlock pauses, cup to his lips. “Did you... The flash drive...” Her words trail off.

“Did I look at it?”

Mary puts her cup down. Her hands are nested in her lap, her face suddenly composed. A cloud passes over the sun, throwing her into shadow for a second or two.

“Did you?” She makes eye contact now, direct, and waits for an answer, but Sherlock is unresponsive. He watches her without expression.“You did,” she answers herself. Sherlock stands. He walks over to her, refills her cup along with his own. She takes it in hand and sips gently. “The flash drive that John threw into the fire was not mine. Similar, but I know the difference. It was not the same.”

Sherlock nods silently, agreeing. The sofa cushions sink a fraction of an inch as she leans back. The baby kicks and she flinches.

“Can I assume that John doesn't know there was a duplicate?” she asks.

“You can.”

Her eyes close briefly and meet his.

John has mentioned to Sherlock on many past occasions the beauty of her eyes. Sherlock knows what it is that endears them to him. They are large. Open and honest looking. They are the eyes of a mother. He himself has never given much credence to the widely held notion that eyes are the windows to the soul, but he understands why one would feel that way when looking into hers. And John is certainly romantic enough for such beliefs.

“So you still have it,” she says, a statement.

He pours some tea for himself and returns to his seat. He blows into the steam once and tips the cup back, taking a sip. “It is in my possession.”

“And,” she hesitates. “You know the contents.”

He takes another sip and lowers the cup from his lips. She strokes her stomach absently, an unconscious act of affection for the little life growing inside her. “In fact, no.”

Her eyebrows raise, breaking the composure. She is surprised. “No?”

“No,” he says. “I do not know what files are contained on the drive.”

She is confused. The cow's skull watches them expectantly from its position on the wall. It has fallen a little, tilting to the right, giving it an inquisitive expression. She looks to the door. Noises are heard from downstairs, where John attempts to apply his paltry knowledge of plumbing to Mrs. Hudson's sink.

“Why not?”

“I didn't look,” he says calmly.

“ _Why not_?”

Sherlock is still watching the skull, wondering vaguely where Mrs. Hudson could have acquired such a grotesque piece of décor. It was there when he arrived, as many of the objects around the room were. Originally he had intended to rid the flat of its presence but had put it off, being always quite lazy, and over time had come to enjoy the contrast it offered to the posh Victorian wall prints and sedated look of the carpet. The room was, in many ways, a reflection of Mrs. Hudson herself.

“I was asked not to,” he replies finally.

Mary's hands are clasped together in her lap. “By John?”

Sherlock stands, walks to her. She leans back instinctively as he nears, but he is simply gathering the cups and tray. He walks to the kitchen and sets them on the table. “Yes, by your husband.”

She shakes her head, her gaze following him around the room. “I don't understand.”

Returning to his seat, he straightens his jacket and sits. He sees that she is wringing her hands, watching him very intently. He looks to the window. “He asked me not to, and I didn't.”

More noises travel up the steps and filter through beneath the doorway. Mrs. Hudson is thanking John for his unsuccessful attempts.

“Yes, but _why?_ You, Sherlock Holmes, who can't resist his own curiosity if it kills him. Why didn't you look?”

Footsteps are heard, approaching them slowly. Mary waits for an answer.

“John was very adamant,” Sherlock says finally, “And although I do confess that it was very difficult in this case to comply with his wishes,” he pauses here for a moment, considering his words, uncertain himself of what it is he means to convey. “I trust him.”

The door opens and Mary pulls herself up from the sofa. Her gaze is intent; she peers steadily into Sherlock's eyes. John stands in the entrance, waiting. She walks to him, says something about an appointment and being late, and John nods. He places a hand around her waist, supporting her as he helps her to the stairs. He throws a goodbye over his shoulder, a promise to call later. Sherlock says nothing and watches them go.

…

Janine sits on the bed, her face turned away from the door. In her hand is the picture, and on the covers beside her are the papers. Evidence surrounds her. She shivers as Sherlock steps into the room.

“You opened the window,” he says. A chill curls up his spine. The coldness is a presence, conscious and animated.

“I needed to breathe.”

The wind blows a cold sigh into the room and she pulls her jacket more tightly around her shoulders. The tip of her nose is pink, her cheeks flushed. Sherlock walks to the window and closes it. The walls seem suddenly much closer and the scene feels too intimate. He takes several strides toward the bed and sits beside her.

“You said someone is trying to kill you.” His voice is low, but his tone is not incriminating. “You knew that it was intentional.”

“Yes.”

She runs a hand through her hair. The lamplight is reflected in it and gives the strands a reddish hue as her fingers pass through them. She catches on a knot at the nape of her neck and lets her hand fall.

“You called him Jim. Jim Moriarty. It was familiar.”

Her feet are bare. Her toes are painted a light green, and she curls them into the carpet threads. Ostensibly, she is still looking at the picture, but her gaze is unfocused. Sherlock feels that she is somewhere far away from him.

“Yes.”

Sherlock picks up the document by her side. It is wrinkled and old. It has been folded and refolded many times. He skims over the information.

“This is your birth certificate. Your name is not Janine.”

She looks up. “No,” she says, her voice insistent. “I am Janine. This person, this girl,” she puts a hand on his, “She's not me.”

Sherlock nods, empathizing possibly more than she believes he is capable of. She takes her hand back, letting it fall to her lap, and shivers once again. The coldness is still with them in the room, attentive and waiting. It hangs over them like a gloomy sky and brushes a kiss against their wrists and necks.

“But she was, once.”

“Yes, a long time ago.”

“What was she like?”

Janine seems now to Sherlock like a very small animal. Her arms are pricked with goosebumps and are pressed closely to her sides. Her breaths are small and quivering. They are silent for a moment.

“Scared. Helpless.” She traces the laminated face. A light is reflected on the photograph, glaring, whiting out parts of her features. “She isn't me.”

Sherlock is very quiet. A car starts in the street below. The engine revs, the sound of it climbing the walls of the building and spilling into the flat. Someone shouts, a happy sound.

“Let me help you,” he says. Her face turns to the ceiling, eyes closed. When she opens them they are angry.

“I don't want to be helped,” she spits. Sherlock is thrown by the sudden venom in her words. “I don't want to be _saved_. I don't need a white knight and you, Sherlock Holmes, are not a hero.”

Silence. After a time, she sighs deeply.

“Jim was my neighbor,” she explains, her voice exhausted. Sherlock sits up straighter. The information is unexpected and it catches him off guard. “He was... troubled. Obviously. Always talking about some brother.”

The notion of Moriarty's past had never really occurred to Sherlock. The man had never, in truth, seemed completely three dimensional or fully human at all.

To Sherlock, he had always been more of a force of nature, manifest of all that was thunderous and terrible in the world. He was the winter wind that blackened your fingertips and crept into your lungs, festering until it killed you from the inside out. He was the undertow that took hold of your kicking feet, surrounding you, swelling up in your mouth and ears, embracing you relentlessly until you breathed your last.

“He has a brother?”

“No, he was an only child, as far as I knew.”

But, Sherlock realizes, of course Moriarty has a past. Of course, at one inconceivable point in time, he was even a child. He came from a woman, a mother. There were possibly people who cared for him. Friends, family. He was not always a monster – there was a time when he was an infant, helpless and juvenile. Exuberant, even. Insignificant.

Even more, he was once a single, impossible cell. Nothing more than a tiny blueprint.

“He killed my cat. I found her on my doorstep one morning, bloody and dead.” Janine hiccups. A tear splashes onto the collar of her jacket. “And then Carl,” she sobs.

“Carl?”

“Carl Powers. My best friend.” She runs her fingers along the jagged edge of the photo. “He used to tease Jim. He wasn't always the nicest person, but twelve year old boys aren't always good people. They never proved that it was Jim, but I always knew.”

“Did Moriarty ever threaten you?”

“No,” she says. “He was... obsessed with me. He said we were going to get married. I was terrified of him.”

Sherlock picks up the birth certificate. “So you changed your name.”

“We got help from the state. Witness protection. I've been in it since I was fourteen. But he keeps finding me,” Her voice wavers. “Every year on my birthday I would get a card from him, no matter where I was. When I moved to a new flat there was often a note waiting on the door.” She takes the parchment, crumbles it in her palms and throws it at the window. “It's why I didn't want the police involved – I didn't want to risk him finding me again. But I think he already has.”


End file.
